Cloud Nine
by General Button
Summary: Martin faints from the constant ache of his other job and the demands and stress of being a pilot. It all becomes too much. But a stay in Douglas's home makes it all the more bearable.


**Rating**: T for kisses

**Pairing**: Douglas/Martin if you want

**Summary**: Martin faints from the constant ache of his other job and the demands and stress of being a pilot. It all becomes too much. But a stay in Douglas's home makes it all the more bearable.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing!

**Cabin Pressure!**

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><p>Martin woke in an unfamiliar place. His head was ringing, eyes aching, and—well everything just generally <em>hurt<em>.

He was on something soft, though. He could feel the sheets under his fingers rub him—oh, were they soft!—as he shifted. His lips parted and a gentle sigh escaped him, wavering near it's end. The idea of leaving the bed hurt, too.

Martin wasn't sure where he was, but ached too much to open his eyes, nor did he particularly want to. He was afraid that if he did, all would disappear and he'd be in his terrible attic room, eating the crumbs from his finished bread. The thought of food nearly had him groaning. He was so hungry, but movement was impossible. Oh, he was sure he could try to move, but the cloud he was sitting on was much too wonderful to give up yet. Reality could wait.

It was after some time that he noticed the sound of rain hitting a window; a dull, thunderous sound, a roaring static dulled by the walls of this home. It was comforting—he felt safe. His muscles relaxed further and he slipped in and out of sleep, not daring to open his eyes. He felt safe, he felt _good_.

When thunder struck, he jumped and sat up quickly, groaning loudly. Oh, God that hurt. His head spun, and for a moment he felt as if he may be sick. His empty stomach churned. Falling back down, Martin breathed deeply for a few moments and tried to relax, a dull pounding in his head only growing louder. He was hot. Everything hurt.

He heard footsteps. Martin didn't open his eyes, didn't move. He was afraid— irrationally— that it might be whoever it was to tell him he had to leave, and that this was too good for him. His head spun and he did his best to pretend he was asleep. His ragged breath probably did little to aid the cause.

Whoever it was stopped in front of the bed—a pressure on his right side appeared. Were they leaning over?—and a cool towel was placed over his forehead. Martin sighed luxuriously. Oh yes, that was nice. A bead of water slipped down the side of his forehead, but he didn't care.

Everything hurt, but if this was the result, he would take it any day.

Whoever it was didn't do more than that and the air held still for quite a few moments, the dull roar of the rain the only sound in the room. Then he heard whoever it was reach towards something; metal clinked. The smell of soup breached his nose and Martin licked his chapped lips in anticipation. It was for him, right? Right?

The warmed metal spoon touched his lips and he parted them, letting the soup slide down his throat. He made a soft sound of gratitude, still unable, unwilling to open his eyes. Every few moments, soup was spooned into him, and Martin didn't wonder who it was anymore. It could've been his imagination playing tricks on him and he wouldn't care. He was feeling warm now. The ache was slowly sliding off his body. Had they put medicine in his soup? Was that possible? He could barely taste anything, so it wouldn't surprise him.

Martin was warm, warm, so warm. He never wanted to leave. His brain lazily floated from one subject to another, unattached to the world.

A coarse finger pressed against his cheek lightly, softly rubbing it.

Martin relaxed into the touch, wished to open his eyes and yet found himself unable to. Everything was too much to try and break this dream.

A glass of water was raised to his lips. Martin tried, he really did, but it seemed his mouth had done enough and refused to open properly, and his body would not be lifted without a wave of dizziness still clinging to him. He groaned quietly and the cold glass was removed.

After a few moments of silence, a pair of soft lips pressed onto his own.

Martin was honestly shocked to a point where he might've been able to move, and then cool water slid between his own lips, trickling down his chin.

Ah.

He parted his lips slightly and drank from their lips; tongue lapping when there was little left. He pushed up but they moved away—only for a moment—and then once more resumed letting the water course down his throat. This continued for quite some time, and in that time, Martin's lips had become quite sensitive, his body beginning to sing with new energy. He felt full. He felt happy, and comforted, and like he was on cloud nine.

Martin opened his eyes, meeting the soft gaze of his First Officer, Douglas.

"Hi," Martin dragged the word out, slurring it at the end with sleepiness, voice croaked from disuse.

"Hi," he chuckled. Douglas removed the towel and kissed his cool forehead. The soft brush of familiar skin made him sigh.

So this was Douglas's house? He didn't much care, really. He felt like he was home. He felt safe.

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><p><strong>A little bit of whumpage, but not really. I just made him sick! Could be DouglasMartin, which I like to think of it as, but it's really just sweet :)**


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